


悲哀 ; sorrow

by pilotisms



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cancer, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Making my own damn Overwatch Lore, Reader-Insert, Shimada Brothers, The Beginning of the End, The Shimada's lose their matriarch to cancer, a Death Fic, about two years before Genji's death, bare-bones knowledge of yakuza culture, but a Loving Marriage, not necessarily 'young' hanzo, pre-dragons, the shimadas are yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24955642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: The matriarch of the Shimada-gumi knows she is going to die.You only wish that her death won't break the men she built.(A fic exploring Genji & Hanzo's mother, their relationship, and her death through the lens of a reader-insert.)
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	悲哀 ; sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I will make my own Overwatch Lore if that's what it takes.
> 
> Anyways, this will have little plot - mostly a fic dealing with grief and loss.

The diagnosis, horrid and wretched and unavoidable, comes with the flowering of the cherry blossoms. 

It came after weeks of lost appetites and dizzy spells and forgetfulness and headaches. Discomfort and paranoia. Something nagging in the back of the mind. It spurred a visit to the family's physician — the appointment lacked the life-changing intention it would soon hold. It would come too many weeks late. 

Hoshiko, the wife of Sojiro and the mother of Hanzo and Genji, was very sick.

The head matriarch of the Shimada family was the very opposite of her husband. Sojiro was grounded and rooted in his role as oyabun. He was unwavering in his leadership and an admirer of strict tradition. Hoshiko, on the other hand, was as easy and free as the wind. She had laughter like sunshine and an uncanny ability to break her husband's trademarked glower. 

Their marriage had come as an arrangement — Hoshiko coming from an old yakuza family, the Sumiyoshi-kai, which had long since absolved its power to the Shimada-gumi. However business-like the arrangement was, Hoshiko was hard _not_ to love; to this day, Sojiro speaks of her paranormal ability to stop a room. 

It is clear, from every moment you see between them, they are just as in love as the day they wed. 

You can hear it in their voices.

You feel, as you wait outside the sliding partition separating the greeting room from the family's dining space, that you're intruding.

The broken weeps of Sojiro mingle with Hoshiko's own weathered whispers. Apologies intertwine, like the dragons staring back at you in the engraved motif along the castle's grounds. The wind kisses your cheeks as you stand on the porch. You wonder what good those words do. Apologies for the loss of the future? For time cut short?

The partition slides open. 

It's Hanzo.

His hands are shaking as he digs a cigarette from his breast pocket and lights it with practiced ease. The golden trinket bears the family's sigil. He runs his thumb over it as he steps up beside you. 

The two of you... You suppose, in many ways, you've always been mirrors of Hoshiko and Sojiro. Your fates have been intertwined since you were teenagers — since your family had allied itself with the Shimada-gumi and, on a promise, offered the hand of their eldest daughter. Certainly, a sight to see... The second strongest Yakuza in Japan bending a knee to the Shimada-gumi. 

Your family was old-Yakuza. Perhaps that's why Hoshiko had taken to you so quickly — and why you'd found yourself out here, sick with dread and heartbroken with grief.

"She says," Hanzo's voice sounds like a shell of himself, "That the cancer will kill her."

You bow your head as you worry your fingers. Smoke winds itself around his nervous grip, nicotine trying desperately to soothe the shake. Your voice is soft. 

"To my understanding," you exhale, "It will."

"And what of the treatments?"

"It's metastasized," you worry your lip, eyes still on those two dragons circling one another on the courtyard ground, "Stage four, in her brain and lungs. She... declined the treatments. Wanted to have her own semblance of dignity, in the end, I suppose."

Hanzo's exhale is pained.

You reach for him, hand falling between his shoulder blades as he reaches to push at the unfallen tears clouding his lower lashes with his knuckles. His arm slips around you, nose pressing to your temple as he places an absentminded kiss there. 

"I'm sorry," you whisper in an attempt to mend the gaping wound ripping the eldest Shimada's chest wide open.

Hanzo has always been closer to his mother. Perhaps it was the freeness he felt by her side; no expectations to adhere to, no future being measured. In her eyes, he was not the future oyabun. He was simply her eldest son. Her dear, dear boy — a picky eater who enjoyed bed-time stories about love, a decidedly stern six-year-old who insisted he'd protect her from anything, a quiet teenager who would go out of his way to buy her favorite tea at the market. He was never the future of the yakuza in her eyes. Only Hanzo. Smart, clever, _strong._

You can _see_ the loss settling into his face.

"We will be okay."

You're not sure who he says it for: you, or himself.

* * *

Summer arrives.

Hoshiko gets sicker.

Though she has begun to get weak, every Saturday morning she is in the gardens with tea and cakes — and every Saturday, you're there with the other few well-liked wives of the wakagashira and shateigashira. Wives of important men. Wives who joked, all too often, of how behind every strong man stood a stronger wife.

You wonder what will happen when Hoshiko leaves Sojiro behind, alone in this realm as she swims in the stars overhead. 

The tea smells like lavender. Your appetite wavers; you find yourself more engrossed in Hoshiko's words than anything else. As if... in some way, you're inking them into your memory. 

She is beautiful. Long hair as dark as the night and a beautiful smile that has always left you feeling as if you _belong._ Her eyes are always alight with something akin to mischief — though, after years of knowing her, you wonder if it's just her spirit glimmering through.

"When you and Hanzo are wed," she says suddenly, tearing you from your admiration of the woman at the head of the table, "That is if my son ever decides to settle on a ring..."

The way her voice dips into good-humor makes you laugh into your cup as you sip away your sudden sheepishness.

"I believe the ceremony should be in the spring."

It ignites chatter — _how beautiful,_ and _yes, when the trees are flowering_ — and you find yourself detaching from the romantic implications. Instead, withering slightly at the idea it will come in a season without _her._

But, you nod. And you make note that you will honor it. 

* * *

Genji does not take the news well. 

That is, frankly, a vast understatement, but you find yourself trying with all your might to push past the grief. Genji, beneath the chided smiles and chipper disposition that he offers his mother when in close-quarters, is _broken_ outside of the Shimada castle. Here, in downtown Hanamura in a loud nightclub controlled by the Shimada-gumi, it shows. 

Beyond the low lights of the VIP lounge, you watch as the young Sparrow staggers from the bar — a woman on each arm. 

He will, no doubt, disappear from here in a handful of moments with both of them in tow. He mourns, but distracts himself with the promise of companionship, if only for the night. 

Hanzo, beside you, tosses back his third glass of high-shelf whisky. The ice tinkers inside the crystalline glass as he sets it down and worries the curve of your knee beneath the table.

His eyes, dark like honeyed coal, narrow critically on his younger brother.

You speak kindly into your martini. "He is simply trying to distract himself, Hanzo."

There are words ready on his tongue. But, they die with a sigh. He knows. It's his father in him that wants to reprimand the galavanting. But Genji is young. You are, as always, right. 

"Would you not do the same?" it's a genuine question, one framed without scrutiny or malice. You turn to look up at him. Ever regal, ever steadfast. 

Even with the whisky muddling the words on his tongue, he responds like a man of poise. "I suppose I do. However, my distractions... they are different."

They are. His distractions are yakuza business. Far from the freedom of Genji's own dealings. You can sense the curdling of his words. A flash of resentment.

You exhale softly as you place your drink down. Your hand finds his beneath the table. You squeeze it.

"Your father has much on his mind. All you've been doing... It has given him time with your mother," you lean your chin onto his broad shoulder, "He is forever thankful, Hanzo. You must know that."

The words quell the hot-white flash of bitterness in his chest. Instead, it stokes a gentle yearning. Thankfulness, among other things, paint his words a rosy shade as he leans and presses a tender kiss to the slope of your brow. 

"Forgive me."

"For what?" you laugh, hand breaking from his and snaking around his bicep, "For having _emotions?_ For... being human?"

He musters a quiet chuckle. His smile is small. "For being insufferable, to start."

"Yes, well, I've had a long time to adjust," you joke as you roll your eyes.

Another laugh. A short exhale mingling with a smirk. "I suppose that's true."

"And worth it."

Finally, a _true_ smile. 

A worthy distraction. 

* * *

Summer ticks by. 

The world, in many ways, begins to grow less vibrant.

Hoshiko has ceased tea in the gardens. Instead, they hold them in the dining area — where the walk is short.

The seizures have become something of a pest — no more than an insignificant annoyance to Hoshiko herself. Her resolve is something that keeps the air around the gathering good-spirited. 

Himari Aika, an older woman married to one of Sojiro's lieutenants, is speaking when the partition to the dining room slides open. Her words slip into a quiet lull at the appearance of Hanzo... and in the same moment, eyes seem to flick to you.

His face is painted with surprise as he bows politely to the room of women — it gives you enough time to admire the man. Dressed in a tighter white shirt, a royal blue vest, and pinstripe slacks, he looks the part of a soon-to-be oyabun. 

"My apologies," he breathes, eyes sweeping up to his mother, "I did not mean to interrupt."

"Join us, will you, Hanzo?" comes Hoshiko's voice. It's warm with affection. Her eyes are soft and the _pride_ she feels towards her son's polished appearance swims in her expression, "My handsome son."

Hanzo's face softens at the praise and at the sight of your agreeing smile. His voice lacks its usual sternness. 

"I have agreed to accompany father on business in the Northern District," he says as he steps into the room, "I only wished to say goodbye."

As he rounds the room, the touch of his hand falls along your shoulder. Your fingers, warm from cradling your tea, touch his knuckles with measured gentility. It's a small moment. 

He kisses his mother's cheek, and with another bow, he's gone.

Hanzo is not there when, after tea, Shimada Hoshiko collapses. 

* * *

You spend all night in that small hospital room. 

The halls are crowded with suits — it's _safe_. The men of the Shimada-gumi guard the room with their lives until the heads of the clan can return from their business up North. Something about territory feuds, about drug-running crossing delicately painted borders of yakuza controlled towns. Important. But far from Hanamura, and by the time word had reached Hanzo and his father and the other kyodai... Negotiations had begun.

Wrapping your sweater tightly around your shoulders, you rise.

Hoshiko is asleep, finally. The brain scans showed another growth — this one putting pressure on the base of her brain. Soon, that tumor will kill her. That is if the ones now appearing in the scans of her colon don't first.

Genji has finally tired himself out. For the last two hours, he's been _pacing._ But, now, he's fallen fast asleep at his mother's side. His hand wound tightly around her own. Her little Sparrow will watch over her for now.

You close the door behind you quietly.

The yakuza in the hall stiffen, and you wave the worried looks off. 

"She is sleeping."

The vending machine down the hall holds promise. But, you find yourself staring that the illuminated glow for longer than you realize. The distraction of the scrolling LED words are enough to keep you far from the emotional pain carving itself into your heart. 

Shimada Hoshiko will die soon.

She will see the winter if she is lucky.

Autumn, if the death is swift.

Perhaps, there's something beautiful about knowing when your time will come. Perhaps, after the long life she's lived, knowing is as good as it gets. Control over the inevitable. 

You swallow. 

You load in a coin and press E5. 

A water bottle rattles into the slot.

Down the hall, you suddenly hear the worried voice of Sojiro.

On his heels is Hanzo.

You watch them enter Hoshiko's room — and you settle yourself down on the emerald-colored bench adjacent to the fogged glass window. You can see the shape of Sojiro and his sons. Tender hands. Whispered worries. You can only watch for so long.

You feel the prick of tears begin to sting. 

When Hanzo exits the room, the first thing he sees is your tear-stained face. You stand up, sweeping your sleeve along your eyes before offering him the cold bottle of water. His face softens as he steps closer, ignoring the offer and, instead, sweeping you into a tight hold. He smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne. You're careful not to smear mascara on his pristine dress shirt's shoulder. 

"You were with her? When it happened?"

"I thought it was a seizure at first," you breathe, hand splaying out on his chest, "But, she couldn't walk. This was different. Even she said so."

Hanzo exhales shakily. 

"Thank you."

You shake your head, swallowing down the hoarseness of a river of unflowing tears. "She is like family to me, Hanzo. There are no thanks needed."

"I am aware," he breathes into your temple, "But to me, it means very much. I was not here..."

"You can't always be," you supply, "Genji was. He... I hate to admit he had more of a level-head than I did at that moment."

Both of your laughs are weak.

He gestures back to the bench. You settle in beside him. 

You're both quiet for a long while.

When Hanzo speaks, you note that the majority of the suits that had previously been lining the walls had vanished. Most likely monitoring the staircases. The elevators. Entrances and exits.

"I am worried her death will take my father with it."

You frown. It's tight-lipped.

"... I'll speak with her about her wishes," you say, "If that will help."

Hanzo nods. He hesitates. "I... I do not know if I could. If my father could."

You find his hand. "I know."

Quiet slips between you both again.

Despite the sorrow weighing down your bones, there's a flash of pride that bubbles up in your heart. You and Hanzo... there was a time, not long ago, that the two of you could hardly imagine the future you would hold together. It was, in many ways, an idealistic fantasy. Unshared and unwanted. But, as you began to find a spot beside Hoshiko as a lady-in-waiting, Hanzo began to find himself _wanting_ you playing a part in his romantic daydreams — you were kind, thoughtful, smart... 

Your feelings for one another came like the seasons. Natural. Purposeful. Slow. At times, cold and distant. Other times, warmblooded and alive. To err is human, and you both had grown to adore one another's faults — you'd grown to support one another, _love_ one another.

In the year and a half that you and Hanzo had been _truly_ together, those three words had never been spoken.

It wasn't as if you _needed_ to hear them.

You knew well enough that Hanzo loved you — he put up with your often playful wit, your bad habit of sleeping in, your affinity for ill-timed curses. When alone with him... There was never a moment that you doubted his affections. He was reserved to a fault in public, but behind closed doors there remained a boyish playfulness that, with a bit of coaxing, is breathtaking.

But, now, huddled together in that hospital hallway?

Hearing those three weighted words meant more than you could ever imagine.

"I love you," he says quietly as his thumb dashes over your knuckles, back and forth and back and forth, "I am not sure what I would do without you."

"Grey a bit quicker, maybe," you mutter, fingers reaching up to smooth the unruly tufts of greying hair around his temples. Hanzo drops his head as he snorts quietly. A small puff of air, a signal of his amusement. 

You give him a tired smile. Then you speak.

"I love you, too, Hanzo. We will be okay."

This time, those words are for him.


End file.
